


Moo

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Male Lactation, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank’s thirsty and can’t even—
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 87





	Moo

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’ve been sitting in Hank’s car for the better part of three hours, and Hank’s leg cramp went from uncomfortable to unbearable about an hour ago. Connor, of course, doesn’t seem any worse for wear—he’s sitting straight up in his seat, posture perfect, hands neatly folded in his lap. There’s not a hair out of place on his pretty head. His brown eyes are fixed on the windshield, staring out across the street. No one’s come out of the building since their arrival, and given that it’s going on two in the morning, Hank doesn’t think anyone will. 

A job’s a job. They’ve got a good lead and rigid orders. So they sit there. Hank shifts in his seat, trying to slump back, even though he’s already crumpled up as much as his aged spine will allow. His hand wants to reach for the coffee cup jammed in the holder between the seats, but then he reminds himself it’s already empty. It’s been empty for a while.

 _Coffee’s_ not really what he wants anyway. He grumbles under his breath, “I need a drink.” A stiff one. And a blanket. It’s been too long to leave the car on, and it’s getting cold. 

“You know, Lieutenant—” Hank preemptively interrupts with a sigh, because he knows that whatever Connor’s going to say, it’s not going to be what he wants. “We have discussed my modifications before, particularly those pertaining to...” His hand lifts, gesturing towards his chest, unusually vague. Then Hank realizes what he means and figures Connor’s sparing the blunt dialogue for Hank’s sake.

Hank blushes crimson and half splutters, half hisses, “I’m not doing that. Jesus. I can’t even believe that’s _there._ ”

“It could be a helpful program, under the right circumstances,” Connor hums. He doesn’t even turn his head: he’s completely focused on his duty, utterly undistracted by a conversation on android _breast milk_ , of all things. “A nursing mother could maintain a routine for her child during personal difficulties or absence, given an android equipped with these adjustments.”

“You’re not a goddamn nursing mother, Connor. You’re a _detective._ ”

“An advanced prototype detective,” Connor corrects, “Equipped with multiple subroutines that were still being tested at the time of my release. This meant significant savings in testing, as well as—”

Somehow, Hank just blurts out, “Hasn’t it gone off by now?” At the slight tilt of Connor’s head, Hank clarifies, “The... the _milk_.” That’s not even the right word. He’s sure of it. There’s no way there’s _real_ milk stored under Connor’s breastplate. He hates that he’s even thinking about it. He’s deliberately not looking at the lean line of Connor’s body, especially the broad expanse of his trim chest. Connor has one of those perfect bodies that’s just toned enough to be mouth-wateringly muscular, yet soft enough to be inviting and enticing. Not that Hank thinks any of those things of Connor. He’s only pictured Connor naked for objective, comparative reasons. 

“It’s artificially produced,” Connor explains, like it’s nothing—no more than the foggy weather. “None of the individual components have reached their expiration date. Shelf-life was a large consideration.” Hank’s just about to say _shut up_ when Connor adds, “But I’m sure it would taste fresh if you were to—”

Hank grunts out, “I’m not drinking from your tits.”

Then he drops his head into both hands, because he can’t believe that just came out of his mouth. He vows to never mention Connor’s _tits_ again. 

“Alright.” Connor sounds so accommodating. Somehow, that only makes it worse. Hank knows he should look up and keep an eye out for the perp but isn’t done being horribly embarrassed yet. Then Connor tentatively starts, “Would you like me to squeeze it out into a cup for you, or...?”

Hank digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries desperately, miserably not to think about milking Connor’s perked nipples like some sort of humanoid dairy cow. It’s absolutely absurd. Connor doesn’t even have any real _breasts._ But he doesn’t really need it, given that he has no internal organs either, so maybe there’s plenty of room for fresh milk packets. Maybe all it would take is a little pinch, and that creamy white liquid would come streaming out into Hank’s greedy hands—

Which would be absurd, of course. And totally not hot. Hank’s not a complete pervert. It’s not like the first time he learned Connor had that function he jerked off to it for the next week straight. It’s not like he deliberately spilled coffee on Connor’s crisp white button-up just to see him strip it off and change. It’s not like Hank _stared_ at Connor’s bare just and memorized the view of his pink-brown nipples for future spankbank purposes. 

Sometimes Hank hates himself. 

“Lieutenant?”

Hank groans, “Stop it, Connor. Just... stop it.”

“I’m only trying to satisfy y—”

The front door bursts open on the building across the street—three suspicious-looking burly men in ski masks scramble down the steps like headless chickens. Connor kicks the passenger-side door open and bursts into pursuit. Hank has never been so grateful for crime.


End file.
